Nieve (5 page)

Alicia was the snot, but Nieve let it go and didn't respond. She had more important matters on her mind. Like remembering, for one thing. Mrs. Crawford's surprise memory lapse had been easy to take, but it had also made Nieve feel uneasy. It wasn't normal. Nor was her own forgetfulness, or her father's . . . or her mother's. So she was determined to keep sharp. I'm going to remember everything, she thought. Even the bad stuff . . . especially the bad stuff, or there'll be no getting rid of it. For instance, where was Malcolm? He hadn't shown up at school, so he wasn't over his measles after all. Nieve decided to take a detour on the way home, drop by his place to see what was up.

Before turning off Main Street, she passed by Warlock's Books, which appeared to be closed. Tatty green shades were pulled down over the door and windows. Not much business Monday afternoon, she supposed. She didn't like going into this store because Dunstan Warlock made her feel uncomfortable, and she got the impression that he didn't even like books – or children. He wasn't anything like the kindly booksellers that you sometimes encountered in books themselves, who were always old and wise and somewhat mysterious. Dunstan Warlock was mysterious all right, but in a nasty way. He rarely spoke, scowled a lot, and always wore grubby black jeans and a black T-shirt with an “Eat the Rich” slogan on it that barely stretched over his fat stomach. On his head he wore a black Stetson with a snakeskin hatband. His store didn't contain anything intriguing, either, mostly bashed-up, second-hand paperbacks and books about war and weapons. It was certainly a mystery how he made a living. Nieve could understand why he might want to eat the rich, and given the size of the stomach maybe he had.

That his store was closed wasn't a big deal, but Exley's pharmacy next door was closed, too. Not only that, but when she peered through the darkened storefront window, she saw that all the stock was gone, the shelves had been wiped clean. Even some of the shelves were gone. When she'd passed by the store on Friday,
three
days ago, those same shelves had been crammed with boxes and bottles of this and that, toothpaste and witch hazel and soap and everything you needed in a pharmacy. Now you'd be out of luck. Weird!

Nieve turned away and was about to pelt down the street, when she bumped into Mayor Mary, who'd approached from behind.

“Gosh, sorry,” she said, stepping back quickly.

“That's all right, Nieve.” Mary smiled as she rubbed her arm. “Don't think its broken. Serves me right for sneaking up on you.” She nodded at the empty pharmacy window, her smile losing its shine. “I don't get it.”

“You didn't know?”

Being the mayor, and an excellent one in Nieve's opinion, Mary usually knew every single thing that was happening in town. Besides which, she was enthusiastic and smart and full of ideas. Although at the moment, she looked stumped.

“No. I was in here on Saturday buying supplies for the clinic. Good thing I did, too. Mr. Exley didn't say a word about closing-up.”

“Maybe he sold it,” offered Nieve. “And the new owners want to take over really soon, and he . . .
forgot
. Forgot to tell you.”

“Maybe.” Mary gazed into the dark interior of the store. “Whatever's going on, I don't like it and I'm going to find out.”

“Um–” Nieve couldn't help but notice that Mary's hair was a mess. It looked like she'd forgotten to comb it that morning . . . and the morning before. She even had a long, dusty strand of cobweb entangled in it, a strand that was floating in the breeze and twisting around her head, as if it had come to life. Nieve didn't want to be rude, but thought she'd better mention it. “You have–”

“Gotta run, Nieve. Thousand things to do. Say hi to your folks for me. Maybe
I'll
need their services soon.”

She was joking, right?

Nieve watched her stride away, cobweb and all – a stride that was as close to a run as walking can get – and then she herself took off in the opposite direction. She
did
run, and it was the best feeling she'd had all day, her legs practically a blur as she whipped along at champion speed. She peeled around the corner of Redfern's Five&Dime –
it
was still open – and shot down Duck Street to Malcolm's place. (Duke Street really, but everyone called it Duck.)

Malcolm lived with his mother, Frances, in a broken-down old house at the end of the street. Nieve liked the house because it had lots of little rooms in it, some that didn't seem to have any reason to be there at all. Frances did her best to fill them up with furniture and purpose, but she didn't have much money, so said things like, “This one is the Thinking Room, Nieve. That's why there's only one chair in it. You don't need anyone yakking at you while you're trying to think, do you?”

True, although Nieve wished there were someone at Malcolm's place right now to yak at her, if only a little, and tell her what was going on. She knew it was no use. The house looked abandoned, and sad on account of it, but she climbed up the front steps anyway – steps that she and Malcolm had painted a peacock blue only a few months ago. The doorbell was an old-fashioned mechanical one with a key-shaped ringer. When she gave the ringer a firm twist, the bell made a rattly-clattery-jangly sound that brought no response whatsoever (although it usually did, so it wasn't the bell's fault). Since it was against her nature to give up easily, and because she dearly wanted someone to answer, she knocked several times as well. More pounding than knocking, which made the house sound strangely hollow. She moved over to the front window and peered in, holding her breath in case it
was
hollow, as empty as the pharmacy had been. But the saggy old couch was still there with a plaid blanket tossed across it, and books and newspapers were piled everywhere as usual, and there were dirty dishes on the floor . . . only no Malcolm. And no Frances.

They've gone somewhere, that's all, Nieve told herself as she walked slowly back up the street, hands shoved in her pockets. A visit to some relatives, a short holiday to cheer Malcolm up. Frances wasn't the sort to take school very seriously, or rules about regular attendance. They're bound to be back soon, she concluded. Although she wasn't much consoled by this. Her heart felt heavy, as if it were a clump of earth stuck in her chest. It didn't help, either, that the day, overcast and grey, seemed as desolate as she felt. Yesterday's storm hadn't cleared the air at all.

When she got home she made a pot of tea and poured herself a cup. She added lots of milk to it, plus an extra spoonful of sugar, which
was
consoling in a small sort of way. When she went off in search of her parents to see if they'd like a cup, she found only her dad home and he was locked in the study, crying. Rehearsing, had to be. The important sympathy job was tomorrow night and he was brushing up on his skills, she thought, trying his best to please Sophie. Nieve decided not to interrupt and went back to the kitchen to work on her folklore report.

It was brilliant. Totally. Not that she'd say this to anyone except herself, and maybe Mr. Mustard Seed. The drawing was especially good, especially scary. She gave Jenny two rows of teeth that were sharpened to fine points, like pike's teeth, and she coloured them a violent green. She showed her rising up out of a river and reaching out, her scaly arms three times the length of any human's, her wrinkly, gnarled hands like claws, black talons dripping with slime. A terrified child was standing on the bank of the river, about to be snatched up and plunged under the water. Nieve allowed a remote possibility of escape – she didn't want to seal the kid's fate entirely. But it wasn't likely.

All in all, she was highly pleased with her report and felt much better for having done it. It wasn't until the next day in class that she realized her mistake. When the substitute teacher, Ms. Genevieve Crawley, snatched up her drawing and smiled delightedly at her, Nieve saw that real monstrosity could be far more subtle. Ms. Crawley's hands were almost normal, and her arms weren't overlong, and her large square teeth were only
very
faintly green.

–Six–
Eye Candy

M
s. Crawley wore gooey black lipstick that was as thickly applied as icing on a cake. How she managed not to get it on her teeth was a puzzle because her mouth was extremely active. She smiled constantly, even when she was speaking, which was also most of the time. As she strolled up and down the aisles exclaiming over their folklore reports, she marvelled at how clever the class was, how talented, how
extraordinarily
well-behaved . . . the compliments were laid on as thick as the lipstick.

Nieve for one didn't like being called clever. Word-wise, clever was too close to cunning. Slyboots were clever, crooks and cheats were clever (sometimes), and Ms. Crawley herself might be clever. That remained to be seen. Alicia Overbury wasn't much appreciating the compliments, either, given her sour expression, but that's because they weren't exclusive to her. The rest of the class seemed merely bewildered. The substitute teachers who were sent from the city were usually shy and inexperienced, easy to manipulate. Ms. Crawley, on the other hand, had spent most of the morning manipulating them.

(“I must inform you that dear Mrs. Crawford has had a most unfortunate accident,” she'd announced right off the bat, smiling hugely. “I may be here for quite some time.”)

“Simply
lovely
,” she said when she arrived at Nieve's desk and snatched up her drawing of Jenny Green-Teeth for a closer inspection. A musty damp-basement smell wafted off her, and Nieve saw that her earrings, moistly black as tadpoles,
were
tadpoles, alive and wriggling, pinned on the fleshy lobes of her ears. “
Very
imaginative.” Ms. Crawley gave Nieve a shrewd look as she set the drawing down.

“I believe this calls for a special
treat
,” she enthused, swishing back up the aisle, her floor-length skirt rustling like dried reeds. On the teacher's desk sat a purse big as a bowling bag and made of brown fur. Muskrat, Nieve guessed. Ms. Crawley made straight for this, unfastened its claw clasp, then plunged her hand in and began to dig around. This produced some squelching noises and even an alarmed
squeak
. Shortly, she pulled out a long black tin which she held up triumphantly, while repeating, “Special treats!” She gave the tin a little shake, and by the sounds of it the contents might easily have been marbles or stones. They turned out to be jawbreakers.

After prying off the lid, Ms. Crawley walked up and down the aisle again, letting everyone choose a candy. Nobody hesitated, nor was there any hemming-and-hawing about which one to take since the jawbreakers were all identical: each one was white with a large black dot in the centre. When Nieve reluctantly chose hers, she inspected it briefly – it reminded her of an eyeball – then set it down on her desk as far away as possible. Her fingers had felt funny holding it, sort of tingly, and there was no way she was going to put it in her mouth.

The other kids in the class weren't as fussy, though, and having been told they didn't have to wait until recess to enjoy their candies, were chewing and slurping noisily on them. In fact, Ms. Crawley insisted that they eat them immediately by urging, smoothly and smilingly, “No point in saving yours, Ben. Your friend has his eye on it. That's it, Susan, aren't they scrumptious? James, don't be a slowpoke, I might want to sample it myself. They're
so
irresistible.”

Nieve knew that Ms. Crawley was watching everyone carefully, so she made a show of scooping hers up and popping it in her mouth. What she actually did was let it roll down the sleeve of her hoodie. When Ms. Crawley finally turned toward the blackboard, she slipped it into her front pocket.

At recess, Nieve did something that she had occasionally been tempted to do, but never before had the nerve – or a good enough reason. This time she had both. She sauntered around to the side of the school where no one bothered to go and waited there for the recess bell to ring. When it did and everyone else was pouring back in and shouting their last shouts before being confined once again, she dashed out of the schoolyard and kept on running and running . . . until she was home. She didn't care what her parents said, she
was not
going back while Ms. Crawley was there.

Nieve planned to tell them that she felt sick, which wasn't entirely a fib. If need be, she'd bring up the subject of measles and Malcolm and how her symptoms
might
be similar. But as it turned out, there was no need, which was even more troubling. They didn't seem to notice that she'd come home in the middle of the morning. Her mother gave her a quick wave as she rushed out the door, and her father wrapped his hands around his coffee cup, and smiled faintly at her, as if she were an acquaintance he'd encountered on the street. He said, “Hey, hi there En. What's new?”